I'm still working.

The minute I walked in my school, I was shuffled around between various staff members who all seemed to want something out of me I couldn't immediately provide and then concluded by redirecting me to another staff member with further demands. Finally I was able to get settled in my office where I spent some time finding out which classroom my kids are in using a list that must have been in no order at all - perhaps, geographical? Actually, that would have been a help because I spent the next half hour wandering around the school looking for my classrooms. The place is built like those play tube systems at McDonalds. All these random corridors and hidey holes, designed to be aesthetically pleasing but in no way functional. Rooms are given numbers in either the 200s, 400s, 500s or 700s. Based on the number, you could never tell what floor the rooms are on, nor could you even guess what wing of the contraption to head for since 200 is next to 600 but occasionally is interrupted by a string of 500s that continue on three miles due west in another part of the school.

Once I actually got to the classrooms the real fun began. Teachers, dealing with severely autistic or behavioral kids, jumped on me salivating. Please, work with little Johnny. I need a break! And me, being a warm-hearted pushover, went along with it. This meant I spent about a half hour in the time out corner with one little kindergardener who was intent on bolting out of the school room. At one point I chased him into the girls bathroom - which was, unfortunately, in use. I tried to talk to his Spanish-speaking aid without realizing that the man didn't speak any English. Can you imagine? I ramble off this big multi-faceted question and he just looks at me, sighs, and goes, "Okay....well, uh. My name is Jose." Swear to god. For the rest of the time, I sat there with a bag of animal crackers feeding the little guy a cookie every time I could get him to engage in the slightest way with me. Sit up, get a cookie. Give yourself a hug, get a cookie. Squeeze the pillow, get a cookie.

I escaped from that just in time for a long meeting during which the school's educational specialists (new name for special education teacher - they reversed it I guess to make it more PC...and dyslexic friendly), basically told me that there's no time during the children's busy school day for me to see them. Frankly, my bigger concern was that there was no time during MY busy day to see them. Especially since every few minutes, as regularly as Old Faithful, another referral for a student that needs OT comes geysering out of the system and onto my caseload.

After that meeting I had just enough time to get to my other meeting, where I participated in a time study, accidentally documented all of my kids backwards, and found out that I have to fill out a ream of paperwork before tomorrow so I'd better get crackin' on that. From there, I had to rush home in California traffic to change clothes and refuel before heading to Powerhouse to be ten minutes late for my appointment with Ty, my trainer. After the hour, I returned home sweaty and unable to move my arms, but still having to finish up that paperwork and - of course - text my coworkers and bitch about the paperwork (i.e. spread the news that it's due and hopefully inspire some of them to start working overtime too so we can commiserate now and take a long lunch together later).

But okay, it's still good. Because if I wasn't working, I'd be sitting here wondering what to do with myself. That's why I'm not too upset that I just learned that my schools go all-year-round and I have to treat the special ed kids even during their month-long breaks. Southern California is fun-filled, but I'd never find enough stuff to do to keep me busy for a whole month.

I say that now. Come spring break when you're all off in the Caribbean... well.